


To Entertain

by pettycells



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, American Football Player Dean Winchester, Meet-Cute, Photographer Castiel (Supernatural), Slice of Life, and they're probably incorrect, gratuitous explanations of american football
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pettycells/pseuds/pettycells
Summary: The High School Blues, as told by tenth-grader Castiel. He’s a nobody in this tiny southern town.…Except, maybe, to one Dean Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	To Entertain

**Author's Note:**

> An interpretation of a High School!AU that nobody asked for. The only thing I miss about my high school years is being able to accurately portray the feels you feel.

The dewy grass soaks into the bottom of Castiel’s jeans. He’s cold, bare fingers fighting the chilly late afternoon where they’re wrapped around his professional camera, but his hoodie grants him a slight reprieve. He wouldn’t even be here in the first place, if not for his yearbook teacher’s volunteering him for this unexpected expedition, but alas, victory has its sacrifice.

He rolls his eyes.

The practice field – a lowly city block of fenced off grass – is cold and misty. The whistle tweets. Football players stream in toward their coach. Castiel kicks at the grass to distract himself, an idle way of keeping warm, while waiting for a picture-worthy opportunity. He thinks back to how he ended up in this situation and wishes bitterly that he hadn’t been a scapegoat to keeping Nancy and Bela from photographing-slash-ogling the boys during practice. Who cared if they missed one practice. The football team had tons of them. And it wasn’t like they captured their losing streak in a still photo during games.

Though to be fair, Castiel amends, you couldn’t tell they were the bottom feeders of their district by the way they’re running their practice. Caleb and Maxwell, defenders side by side, block the defending team with a crack of colliding gear as their running backs tear off down the field; Eddie, the quarterback, throws a perfect spinning arch to Ted for what would constitute in-game as a touchdown; Castiel snaps off winning shots all the while. If they played like _this_ during games, it would make Friday nights far more entertaining.

The team ignores Castiel for the most part, which suits him just fine. (The sooner this is over with, the better.) It’s because of this that, when a wayward tackle sends the ball bouncing towards Castiel, instead of going after it like a besotted, female member of his yearbook crew (or the rest of the high school population, for that matter), he wisely steps out of the way. A quartet of them come after it, spearheaded by Ted, who takes notice of Castiel the Camera Guy like a wolf to a sheep.

“Hey, Castill!” he hollers. Castiel has a panicked second to decide whether to turn away and act like he can’t hear him or grin and bear it before Ted barrels on; “Where’s the girls at today?”

Castiel huffs in the impression of an indulgent laugh. “Mrs. Parson knows you too well, Ted,” he replies, sounding cockier than he feels. “She sent me instead.”

“Aw, you’re not too bad,” Ted replies. He flashes him a shit-eating grin. “Heard from Nancy you’re the best picture-taker. So? Gettin’ good shots of your number one team?”

“You can save the ass-kissing.” Castiel blinks at his own bluntness as some of Ted’s buddies guffaw. Ted, for his part, looks amused. Castiel plasters on a smirk and finishes, “I know you’d rather Nancy be here.”

Ted laughs, but it’s bashful almost. As he starts to follow his fellow players back toward the rest of their team, he flashes a huge, toothy grin and a wink, and says, “Get the _best_ shots of me for Nancy!”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head, but drops the façade with a sigh of relief almost immediately after Ted turns around and takes off. It’s not that he doesn’t like Ted. And small talk, he can handle. He just prefers to be alone with his camera, that’s all. 

A glance at his watch makes him feel better. “Just a few more minutes,” he murmurs to himself.

He looks up and catches movement to his left, and realizes belatedly that he’s not entirely alone. He locks gazes with Dean – a running back – for a second too long before he tears his eyes away, hoping that he hadn’t been loud enough to hear.

Dean doesn’t seem to have noticed. Or maybe he doesn’t care, like the rest of their school. He strides sideways for a few steps before turning back to rejoin his team, and Castiel kicks at the grass again. 

_Castiel_ doesn’t care, for that matter. High school isn’t the end all, be all that popular media made it out to be, and the impressions he makes here – _if_ he makes any – aren’t going to follow him around after he leaves. He doesn’t plan on staying in this town after graduation, anyway; his siblings have set the examples of paths he intends to follow, at least to some degree.

Maybe photography will be one of them. Who knows. But it isn’t something he’ll find here, as Gabriel and Anna have proven.

The team is huddled and looks like they’re wrapping up practice, so Castiel goes through his photos and finds he’s pleased with what he’s gotten. He calls it quits just before the coach does, and beats the crowd to his car parked just outside the chain link fence; he’s glad to be rid of the cold chill and the last-minute obligation. 

He hopes his work won’t get him pigeon-holed again.

It is too much to ask for, of course.

The following day is Thursday. Thursdays aren’t as bad as Fridays; high school kids don’t get as hyped for junior high games as they do for their own. Still, there is an excitement to the air that underlies his normal study day routine, making Castiel feel like the typical outsider. He’s sitting in the back of his yearbook class, attempting to fit a tricky image into one of his assigned pages, when Nancy corners him with a friendly wave and a smile.

“Hey, Castill,” she greets.

Castiel steels himself inwardly. Nancy is a decent person, but she only ever talks to him when she needs a favor. He turns to look at her with as inviting of an expression as he can muster and must fail, because Nancy’s smile falls just the slightest and she clasps her hands.

“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” she says.

Castiel shelves his project and withdraws his hands. “It’s okay,” he replies. “Did you need something?”

Nancy smiles again, smaller this time, and moves to sit beside him. “I wanted to ask a favor of you.”

Her gaze falls to her lap. She has the decency to look a little ashamed, at least, so Castiel prompts her with, “Yes?”

“I’m on the schedule to take pictures tomorrow night,” she begins, lifting her head. “But Bela and Marty made posters for us to hold in the stands for Ted and the guys.”

He can see where she’s going, and furrows his brows. “I’m not your wingman, Nancy.”

“Of course not!” Nancy hastily agrees. “And I’m not asking you to be. I will take pictures at the game, but I want a couple quarters off to be up in the stands. Just the first and the fourth. Would you cover those for me? The second and third are mine. Halftime too. I promise.” 

Castiel chews on his lip and sighs. Nancy may be nice, but he despises varsity games. He’d sooner relive yesterday’s sacrifice on behalf of his teacher than go to a Friday night game of his own free will. It’s why he exerts his seniority as a junior of the class to take all the Thursday seventh-, eighth-grade, and JV instead. They’re much quieter, and far less crowded, and he’s usually home at a decent hour, although it’s still an event he doesn’t take much interest in. But the thought of having to take pictures tonight, and then drag himself up _again_ to a _varsity_ game no less for two nights in a row…

“How about this,” Castiel offers, beating back his reluctance with the silent mantra of, _lesser of two evils_. “I’m signed up for tonight. Why don’t you take the games today, and I’ll take the game tomorrow. All four quarters. And halftime. That way we don’t have to worry about juggling the camera back and forth.” _And I only have to go through this circus once._

Nancy beams at him. “Sounds great, Castill,” she replies. She places a hand on his arm and squeezes her thanks, but lets go before he has time to protest. “Thank you for this. I really owe you one.”

“Yes,” he agrees, but she’s already stepped out of earshot, and it was half-hearted anyway. He sighs and turns back to his computer. Nancy asks everyone for favors, but he’ll be damned before he lets Mrs. Parson turn him into a scapegoat for the entire class.

“Better learn to grow a spine, Castiel,” says Fergus, peering above Castiel’s monitor with a leer, “or they’ll make a habit of throwing you onto the sword.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Stop talking, Fergus.”

Today bleeds into tomorrow, and Castiel wakes up Friday morning with an itch in his gut. He thinks it’s anxiety for what would befall him this evening, but resolutely ignores it in favor of plodding through class. 

The itch evolves into a nervous flutter as his lectures give way to the pep rally, and by the time he checks out the camera at the final bell, he’s beginning to regret ever agreeing to switch with Nancy. He can admit that he’s probably building it all up in his head, but as the crushing, excited energy floods around him in streams of school colors, he thinks miserably of their team doomed to fail, and him, an outsider, forced to document it on SD card.

Football games – _any_ games, for that matter – are really not his scene.

Castiel arrives at the high school football field at 6:45 promptly. The late September sky is clear and warm, and grilling smoke from the concession stand fills the air. It’s reminiscent of summer; clinging to the last vestiges of what feels like a lifetime ago, when nights were long and freedom was theirs. When Castiel’s life was how it should have been, and when it all changed. An opposite to Wednesday’s dreary after-school practice. He thinks of family and togetherness and happier times and tightens his hands around his camera bag strap, trying to let it comfort him even as the sheer volume of people bowls him over, and hopes he can survive this venture. With a deep and calming breath, he wades in.

The game hasn’t started yet, but the high school band is an eclectic mess of cracking notes and drum beats. Castiel digs a finger into his closest ear and spares them a look; hardly any of them notice, and those who do wave enthusiastically and pose, calling for him to take a picture. He acquiesces, suppressing an eyeroll, because it’s like one big, annoying domino line; soon he’s got the entire mess of band kids shouting for him and his camera. 

He manages to escape onto the track after he indulges in a few photos, tracking over the student section of the stands. He spots Nancy, blissfully unaware, decked out in school colors and warpaint and holding a glittery heaping sign, and huffs his disapproval. It’s not like he’d rather be in her position, but he envies the freedom from this duty. He’d rather be home, doing anything but getting yelled at to take a picture of a generic pose, as the cheerleaders are doing now. 

He can’t _wait_ until the game starts.

When it does, the crowd (thankfully) forgets he’s there, and he gets to take photos of the actual game in relative peace. As is par for the course, their team has a good start.

The opposing team – the Steers – win the coin toss. They choose to receive the ball; Castiel snaps a photo of the starting line as they prepare to kick-off. Eddie, Caleb, Max, Ted, Dean, Hector. A whistle tweet and some countdown beats from the drumline of their band, and the men move. The horns explode into sound as Max kicks the ball into the air.

 _Snap_. A good still of the teams as they collide, a mixture of red and blue.

 _Snap_. Hector, wrapped around the opposing quarterback as they fall together, memorialized in film.

 _Snap_. A shot of Lester as he breaks in and sacks the Steers’ quarterback. Second down changes to third. The cheers from their home stands almost deafen Castiel.

(He doesn’t understand the excitement for such a small accomplishment.)

But the cheers are warranted soon after. In the next play, the opposing quarterback throws the ball, and Caleb intercepts it. What had been deafening cheers before explode into a riot of screams. Castiel shoots as their team switches to offense.

“Pass was intercepted, resulting in a turnover!” the announcer says. “Wildcat fans, get on your feet!”

“Up, up, on your feet! The Wildcats can’t be beat!” the cheerleaders yell.

Their team, emboldened by the support, perform excellently. The whistle tweets; the drum beats; the helmets and shoulder pads crack in collision. Eddie throws a perfect spiral, and Nate breaks free of his defender and catches it. He turns out from his rival’s reaching arms and takes off across the grass. The din from the onlookers follows him down the field.

 _40\. 30. 20._ One of the Steers dives for his feet and Nate stumbles, but recovers. The stands go crazy. Nate outruns the rest of the defense and Castiel captures the moment he sails into the endzone.

“And that’s a Wildcats TOUCHDOWN!” the announcer booms. 

Castiel can’t hear himself think over the excitement from the crowd. _Should’ve worn earplugs_ , he thinks, digging a finger into his ear. But below all the ruckus, in spite of his surface-level grouchiness, he can feel his heart beating in time.

The players line up for the extra point; Castiel snaps Max kicking the ball, watches with the crowd as it sails through the goal posts, covers his ear obligingly as the perfect goal rouses another bout of cheers.

“And the extra point is good!” trumpets from the speakers. “Wildcats lead with 7, Steers 0!”

They return to middle field for another kick-off. As their team jogs over, they jump excitedly, high-fiving in triumph. Castiel thinks it would make a good addition to their yearbook page, and takes care for some well-timed shots of their exuberance.

The drums beat, the whistle tweets, and the line of starters move. Max kicks off the ball and the band roars to life. The ball soars forward. A Steer catches it at the 20-yard line. The stands watch in anticipation as the teams collide. Castiel gets ready.

All eyes track the Steer as he wades into the action. Alex grapples for him but misses; the rest of their men notice and move to compensate. Hector turns but his defender knocks him off his feet. Dean catches the Steer by the sleeve but the kid wrenches out of his grasp.

 _He’s fast,_ Castiel thinks, and it’s the last thought he has before he watches the Steer speed out of the mass of bodies and bolt across the field; he outruns everyone else that chases after him, taking the ball all the way into the endzone. The thunderous din from the visitor’s side echoes across the stadium, into the home stand’s stunned silence.

“Touchdown for the Steers,” says the announcer. The previous excitement is leeched from his tone.

But the visitor’s side more than makes up for it. They line up again for the extra point, and the kick is good, firing up another explosive celebration.

“Extra point is good, bringing us Wildcats 7, Steers 7.”

And so the rest of the first quarter goes, on into the second quarter. The excited homestand cheers turn into frustrated shouts, demanding, “Defense!” and “C’mon, boys!” Castiel winces, and the crowd reacts in kind, at every turnover, interception, and touchdown at the expense of their team. The visitor’s stands haven’t stopped cheering in one loud, successive stream of noise since the tables have turned. By the time the second quarter ends, Castiel looks up at the scoreboard to see the mocking, glowing numbers, _Wildcats 7, Steers 28._

Disappointment lingers in the air, an unpleasant tang, but Castiel can’t say he’s surprised. Pretty typical, to be honest. The marching bands take the field to perform their shows – Castiel profiles their band obligingly – and then the football teams return for the last half of the game. Castiel settles in for what he knows will be a long and dissatisfying night.

The Wildcats will receive the ball at this kick-off; they take the field, opposite of their formation before, and Castiel ponders how to strategize his pictures from here onward, or if he even need stay to the end. He checks his lens; notes to himself, as he zooms in on their guys, that they can’t keep still. 

Caleb shakes his arms and bounces on the balls of his feet. Max cracks his knuckles and jogs in place. They appear to vibrate with some sort of energy, a renewal to the drag that had pervaded them before they left for the locker room. The stands behind him are quiet with lingering disappointment, but Castiel catches what they miss. He narrows his eyes.

_What are they thinking?_

“ _Fwweeeet!_ ” the whistle blows, and the teams line up. The home stands are quiet; in their silence, Castiel can just pick out Eddie’s voice as he hollers instructions to his men. On the last note of his voice, they break, springing into action. Plastic gear clacks, Eddie sidles back with ball in hand; Caleb and Max protect him from the advancing Steers. Farther afield, outrunning their defenders, the running backs turn and search.

And Castiel sees it – a flaw.

In guarding their running backs, the Steers have oversighted one lone man. Dean is wide open. And Eddie sees it too.

Castiel holds his breath.

Eddie’s arm winds back to throw the ball. It’s got a long way to travel. He hurls the ball into the air with all his strength on reserve. It sails, far and true. The Steers realize their mistake. Dean compensates.

It’s too late – they’ve executed the flaw perfectly, and the ball lands heavily in Dean’s arms. A gasp ignites in the stands; when Dean holds steady and turns for the endzone, the gasp becomes a roar of cacophonic sound. Castiel doesn’t breathe again until Dean’s feet cross the goal line and – barely perceptible over the stunned, excited screams of their homestands – the announcer thunders with awed surprise, “And that’s a touchdown for the Wildcats!”

Their men don’t celebrate the achievement as much as Castiel suspected they would; they meet each other at the goal line for the extra point and give each other high fives and pats of encouragement. Castiel eyes the scoreboard. _13-28_. Perhaps their humbled approach is not without merit.

The extra point is good. More dampened, encouraging pats are exchanged. Their homestands more than make up for it with their wall of shouting voices, impressed and bolstered by the turn of events. When they meet in the middle of the field, the same type of energy encases their team. They can’t stop moving, taken over with an energy that differentiates them from the team who played in the first half. Castiel is enraptured by it.

Again, and again, their team pulls off amazing plays that advance them down the field and drive up their score in a chase with the Steers’ – their defense bares its teeth, shutting the Steers out anytime they play, and Caleb manages another interception mid-third quarter; always with that buzzing air of determined energy, and always with nothing more than quiet gestures of confidence, of encouragement, to one another. They don’t over celebrate, or get cocky. They take their successes and move on. They are men set to work.

The homestands are back to cheering at regular intervals again, but in between plays, they hold their breaths, wondering, anticipating, when their streak of luck will end.

By the time the buzzer announces the end of the fourth quarter, Castiel is surprised to realize he’s lost all track of time. The Steers had managed to score again, but the Wildcats had caught up and kept pace with them, pitting them neck and neck at _35-35_. The buzzer heralds their entrance into overtime – a sudden death. Whoever manages to score next will win the game.

The air mists with unshed rain. The atmosphere is electric and alive.

“The coin toss is won by the Wildcats, and they’ve elected to receive the ball,” the announcer narrates.

The opposing drums thunder into the silence of the homestands as the Steers kick off. The ball flies through the air and plummets into Valentin’s hands. Caleb, Max, Ted, clear him a path, driving back the opposition as Valentin takes off.

Shouts of encouragement ripple through the homestands as he eats up yards unimpeded. Castiel manages a snap of Valentin’s impressive form. A Steer – the fast one – matches his pace and catches up to him. The entire stadium erupts, both sides screaming for their competing boys. The Steer dives, entangling Valentin’s legs and bringing him down just 20 yards shy of their endzone.

The play restarts; they set up on the 20-yard line, end goal in sight, so close they can taste it.

“Let’s go!” people scream behind Castiel. The cheerleaders have forgotten their job, standing in a broken line at the edge of the track to join the ranks in disjointed shouts.

Seconds feel like eternities as the players face off. Castiel gulps, clutching his camera.

The ball snaps, and the men come alive, as do the stands.

“LET’S GO, BOYS!”

“C’MON WILDCATS, PUSH THROUGH!”

“GET THAT WIN!”

Valentin hits the 10-yard line. Nine yards. Eight.

“You’re nearly there,” Castiel whispers.

Red and blue swarm like a beehive. The mess of bodies falls seven yards away. The cards change to second down.

The homestands are a frenzy. Castiel’s heart thumps.

The play restarts. Valentin’s voice is high and tight as he calls orders. The ball snaps. Valentin tucks it in and dances on his feet, looking for an opening. His defenders try to clear a way, but the Steers push back hard. Castiel sucks in a breath.

And then Dean slips through into the endzone, a Steer hot on his trail. He waves for Valentin’s attention.

Valentin zeroes in on him and takes the chance. The ball spirals into the air, a short distance that feels like miles to the stunned, tense onlookers. Dean reaches – the Steer reaches with him. They collide midair, the ball caught between their tangled arms, and hit the grass hard, legs folding, falling back.

The crowd holds its breath for one staggering, deafening second of silence.

The referees raise their arms. _Touchdown_.

The stadium explodes.

They _won_.

A laugh escapes Castiel incredulously. The thunderous roar of celebration from the stands drowns out everything else; through the excitement, through the veil of raindrops that have begun to fall, Castiel watches their men swarm each other in jubilance, jumping and hugging and fist pumping, all the things they abstained from during the game. Their determined buzz has blown into full, restless, exuberant energy. A surge of pride beats in Castiel’s chest. He memorializes their happiness – their exhilaration – as the sidelines break across the field to join them.

The after-game etiquette happens beneath the cover of a rainstorm, but it can’t dampen their mood. Castiel sticks around, snapping shots from beneath a towel, as the Wildcats jog over to their homestands, received by the disarming wall of screams of their proud, satisfied fans. They remove their helmets and link arms, swaying together and joining in with the voices of their onlookers as they sing along to their school song.

Max and Ted laugh, winking and waving up into the stands, no doubt at their doting female student devotees. Nate cries and Caleb ruffles his hair comfortingly. Eddie belts the words at the top of his lungs and Hector clearly doesn’t remember them but belts along anyway. Castiel captures it all.

And Dean, standing directly in front of him, watches. Castiel takes a picture of him, so serious and focused, before he realizes his gaze is trained on him. When he comes back out from under the towel, he locks eyes with him for real, but he doesn’t look away.

Bolstered by the atmosphere, Castiel smiles at him. Almost imperceptibly, Dean smiles back.

Castiel feels ridiculous. He can’t help but to start laughing at himself, jovial, bewildered, and enthused. Dean’s smile turns into an outright beam.

“ _Our fight never dies!_ ” everyone shouts together, hailing the end of their school song.

By the time Castiel has everything packed away and ready to go, he’s too late to beat the crowd. The rain falls heavy now, driving people off of the field, out of the stands, chasing them out to find cover, but that magic of the game remains. Castiel thinks – even as he runs into Nancy on his way out, who grips his arm and thanks him profusely, and worries about the integrity of the camera in the wet camera bag, and gripes about soaking into the seats of his car as he finally climbs in – that perhaps he was wrong.

He could do this again, if they kept up their fight. They had something, a spirit perhaps, worth capturing.


End file.
